


The Ache Is A Gift

by xdandelionxbloomx



Series: Tired Symphony Verse [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Depressive Thoughts, I don't want to subject to anyone to bad thoughts during the exploration of Jaskier's character, I hope it doesn't disappoint it's entirely different than the last, I think I covered everything? let me know if not, Jaskier's past is talked about and confronted, Kerak is really terrible, M/M, PLEASE READ THE TW, TW FOR THIS FIC: Child abuse both verbal and physical, a new character joins the family, jaskier's father is dying, jaskier's parents are really terrible, some original characters in here but only one that becomes a big part of this particular story, this is very much a sequel/prequel in one, this one really kind of wrote itself, visiting a place where Jaskier experienced a lot of trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22196101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xdandelionxbloomx/pseuds/xdandelionxbloomx
Summary: The earliest memory that Jaskier had of his name started in a busy room.He couldn’t remember if it was all family or employees - or something else altogether. He could just picture the chaos, people bustling about, and Jaskier had to crane his head back to look up enough to see the faces around him.He’d been barely old enough to start his lessons then, so when the snarl of his full name carried through the moving bodies, tears had sprung to his eyes - unable to be controlled.“Julian Alfred Pankratz!”His mother’s voice had been harsh and unforgiving.-Vignettes of Jaskier's past - a past that he has to confront with Geralt at his side.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Tired Symphony Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597723
Comments: 149
Kudos: 2505





	The Ache Is A Gift

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, okay, so I hope this one doesn't disappoint. I took a lot of liberties here - I haven't read the books so please don't say anything about them!  
> TW FOR THIS FIC: Child abuse both verbal and physical, depressive thoughts, visiting a place where Jaskier experienced a lot of trauma, Jaskier's parents are very Bad, terminal illness for Jaskier's father  
> I think I covered everything there. Please let me know if not and I'll tag it as soon as possible!  
> I have played the third Witcher game and the wiki for it helped contribute a lot of the information about Jaskier's past. (Though I took a lot of creative liberties and switched some things up.) I did a lot of my own guesswork and fully intended for this fic to go in one direction. It went in an entirely different different one because apparently The Witcher makes /me/ write now, but I hope you enjoy the new addition to this verse (that I'm calling the Tired Symphony Verse for now since that's what started it all). This takes place after the first story A Tired Symphony.  
> Unbeta'd - please be gentle with any mistakes!

Returning to Oxenfurt was… strange. 

Jaskier was older now. Sometimes he’d forget just how long it had been, truly. He’d forget that he’d gotten crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes - that the cold made his hands ache in a bone-deep way that he could never quite settle. He’d forget that he’d grown older when traveling with Geralt, when visiting Kaer Morhen, when _living_. 

The visit was really only sidetracking them, but Geralt allowed it. Jaskier knew the witcher was only indulging him - Geralt had never really been a fan of large cities and Jaskier had a couple of theories why - but nevertheless it made Jaskier’s heart warm. 

The grey mare that Vesemir lended him for longer journeys plodded along behind him, following sedately as Roach continued to stay just one step ahead where she kept pace with Geralt. 

“I still don’t understand.” Geralt spoke above the chatter of young voices, gaze scanning continually to keep track of any dangers that might present themselves. 

“I know you don’t.” Jaskier said, huffing a breath and leaning to bump his elbow against the witcher’s. “You don’t have to, but I’ll put it this way - you make sure you have the best swords available, yes?” Geralt side-eyed him for a moment and gave a reluctant nod. “It’s like that. Ciri deserves the best supplies.” 

“She’s not becoming an artist.” Geralt said, squinting at Jaskier like he was trying to figure him out. He did that occasionally - like somehow just _looking_ at Jaskier would give him the answers he was looking for. 

“Most likely not.” Jaskier agreed - “That doesn’t mean that she doesn’t deserve good ink or some _nice_ paints for when she _wants_ to do art. Sometimes things don’t have to have an express purpose other than making you feel nice.” Jaskier pointed out, glancing over at the witcher. “I know it’s still a bit of a foreign concept and you’re still _getting_ it, but-- just let her play around with them after I get them for her. You’ll understand. Trust me.” 

Jaskier’s gaze slides away as they get closer to the university, lighting up at the sight of the shop he’d been looking for. 

“Ah. This way.” He led his mare towards the little building - it was tucked up between two larger ones and appeared a little worn. The sign was painted beautifully, though, with vivid colors that stood out among the other shop titles. 

Jaskier tied his mare, ducking into the building with the trust that Geralt would follow. 

“Is that--” He’d been in the shop all of maybe thirty seconds when the clear, twinkling voice rang out. 

“Tiffinn.” Jaskier grinned, greeting the elf by spreading his arms. 

The next moment had them full as she threw herself at him, squeezing tight enough that Jaskier let out a little wheeze. 

“By the Gods. It’s been _years_. I should wallop you!” Tiffinn pulled back, hands tight on his upper arms, pinning them to his sides as she took him in proper. 

Geralt grunt softly and Jaskier huffed, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling before his grin turned into something more fond. “Tiffinn, this is Geralt of Rivia.” Jaskier introduced, squirming out of her grip to retreat to Geralt’s side, reaching out to grip his wrist, lifting the witcher’s hand for him and giving it a slight wave. Geralt pulled his hand from Jaskier’s and pushed the bard away by putting his palm on the side of his head - it was a gentler shove than Geralt would ever admit to and Jaskier turned his delighted gaze on Tiffinn. 

Tiffinn - who had lit up like a match dropped on rum soaked clothing (which is another story entirely) - glanced between them and clapped her hands together, pressing her fingertips to her chin. “ _Oh_.” She said, gently, and Geralt looked supremely uncomfortable as Jaskier stepped away to peruse the shelves. “I’m so happy for you, Jaskier! You know, I’d always thought the professor life didn’t quite suit you.” 

Geralt’s brows lifted, golden eyes leaving Tiffinn to instead focus on the bard. A silent question that Jaskier debates on answering as he pulled a small glass container of dark ink off the shelf, inspecting it. “Professor?” Geralt’s rolling voice came with a couple of footsteps that put Geralt up against the wall beside the shelf he was looking at. Jaskier felt the weight of his gaze leave and although Geralt wasn’t staring him down any longer, he knew he wasn’t quite getting out of this one. 

“Yes.” Jaskier provided with a huff, finally. “There’s a reason I tend to stay away from the _actual_ university.” 

“The university nearly wept when the boy left, you know.” Tiffinn’s dropped her hands, returning to the counter where she had been mixing some colors - she couldn’t leave them standing in the open air too long, after all. “His classes were near unmanageable. The second half of the year, they had to move him to an open air space in an attempt to fit all the students.” 

Jaskier placed the bottle of ink back on the shelf, waving his hand as if swatting away annoying bugs. “I hardly ever gave assignments. It wasn’t a surprise students wanted the credit.” 

Geralt’s gaze kept bouncing between Jaskier, Tiffinn, and the door - clearly invested in the conversation despite being uncomfortable around someone he didn’t know very well. 

“Hm. The credit, yes.” Tiffinn teased, beginning to package a beautiful royal blue - Jaskier, to this day, believed some sort of magic got woven into her paints. Maybe it was just the love she had for the craft that got put into it - but something was afoot. “It had nothing to do with the sweet face that actually had good advice for writing. Absolutely not. It didn’t have a _thing_ to do with the respect you treated the students with. It was the pressure free environment entirely.” 

Jaskier had gotten a bit warm and he wrinkled his nose under the blush, rolling his shoulders in a shrug. “Tiffinn, you make it sound a much bigger happening than it was--” 

“Why did you leave?” Geralt sounded puzzled, interrupting Jaskier and making him turn to look at the witcher in surprise. Jaskier stood for a moment, uncertain of how to phrase it, Tiffinn lifting her brows a bit.

“I wasn’t happy.” Jaskier settled on, clearing his throat. “The students were great, don’t get me wrong, and the coin was decent, but I wasn’t-- happy.” 

A peculiar expression passed Geralt’s face, lingering for a moment before the witcher seemed to catch himself. He schooled it, looking away from Jaskier to settle on the door and the windows. 

When Jaskier turned to Tiffinn, she was giving him a _look_ and Jaskier shook his head - it wasn’t as if he knew what Geralt thought _all the time_. He’d gotten good at reading him, but he was no sorceress. 

“How many colors have you got mixed?” Jaskier wandered towards the counter and Tiffinn hummed, switching to business mode as if she was aware there was a strange air between them as well. 

By the time they left the shop, Jaskier was laden with a rather large bag of nearly one of each of her colors of paint along with three different inks. It was all of Jaskier’s coin from the last two weeks on the road, but it was going to be worth it - he was certain of that. 

Tiffinn had squeezed him just as tightly when she’d first seen him before he’d gone, making him promise to visit within at _least_ the next two years. Her eyes had some sort of heavy sadness in them when she’d pulled away - a sadness that Jaskier didn’t like to think about. 

It went back to his crow’s feet, he’d think. (He wasn’t sure _when_ he’d be ready to confront that truth, but it would have to come eventually - he knew that.) 

Jaskier was carefully loading the contents of the bag into the grey mare’s saddlebags - and he hated calling her the grey mare, but Vesemir had insisted she didn’t have a name which left Jaskier calling her Grey when pressed - when Geralt stepped up beside him. A hand splayed over the horse’s neck, petting slowly as he watched Jaskier’s careful arrangement of the items. 

“You’re happy now?” The low question nearly got lost under the general clatter of the city and Jaskier blinked, pausing in surprise. 

They’d not talked deeply about what was happening between them. It was still somewhat new - Jaskier wouldn’t call it fragile (they were too secure in knowing what they would always _choose_ ), but he wasn’t sure he always had the right words. Something about it was burrowed in Jaskier’s very bones, deeper than even his heart. Geralt was - and always would be - a part of him in a way that ran deeper than a few pretty words could express. 

“Geralt.” Jaskier started, quietly, searching his face. This wasn’t quite the place, he didn’t think, but he still reached out and settled a hand over the witcher’s chest. He couldn’t feel his slow heartbeat under all the armor, but he knew it was there and that was enough. “ _Yes_ . Of course I am. _You_ make me happy - I thought you knew that--” 

Jaskier fully intended to say more, but a deep, booming voice rang out dropping the ground out from under his feet. 

“ _Julian!”_

+++

The earliest memory that Jaskier had of his name started in a busy room. 

He couldn’t remember if it was all family or employees - or something else altogether. He could just picture the chaos, people bustling about, and Jaskier had to crane his head back to look up enough to see the faces around him. 

He’d been barely old enough to start his lessons then, so when the snarl of his full name carried through the moving bodies, tears had sprung to his eyes - unable to be controlled. 

“ _Julian Alfred Pankratz_!”

His mother’s voice had been harsh and unforgiving. She’d been angry - he couldn’t remember _why_ , only that she grabbed him roughly. Her hand had been warm and covered nearly his whole forearm - in another context it might have been comforting, but she had only ever grabbed him to drag him bodily where she wanted him. She squeezed until the tears had spilled over and Jaskier had tried to twist away from her. 

“Don’t you try to get away, you little monster! You’re--” 

Jaskier had dug his heels in and his mother had hissed an annoyed sound, raising her voice to call for--

+++

“Brimran.” Jaskier said, voice flat as he pulled his hand from from the witcher, visibly straightening his spine and squaring his shoulders. 

The man was a couple of inches taller than Geralt - wider, too. He’d always just been _large_. Jaskier remembered thinking him a giant - especially when he was in deep shit. 

“Julian, it’s been a long time. I’ve been looking for you.” Brimran’s slightly accented voice was _loud_ in a way that made Jaskier’s skin crawl. His jaw clenched and he tucked away the last container of paint before buckling the saddlebag closed. “There is news.” 

Jaskier thinned his lips into a smile that wasn’t a smile, an expression that could cut like a knife - he’d worn it most of his younger years when he’d finally learned how to make himself an armor of his own. “Must be important for you to use all that effort in tracking me down finally.” His voice no longer held the gentleness it usually carried - it wasn’t quite hostile, but walked a careful line close to it. 

Geralt had gone tense beside him - he could nearly feel the confusion radiating off the witcher, but in the moment Geralt was far more worried about the man being a threat than he was about the name, Jaskier knew that. It did not make him feel any better. 

“Your father is dying.” Brimran informed and Jaskier didn’t-- know what to feel. He stood there and oddly felt-- calm. 

“Why did you track me down to tell me _this_ ?” Jaskier finally asked and sounded _tired_. Geralt’s hand reached out, pressing to the place between his shoulders as if to support him physically. Jaskier leaned into it the slightest bit, glancing over his shoulder in gratitude before refocusing his attention. 

Brimran’s eyes finally, _finally_ left Jaskier to properly acknowledge Geralt. He lifted a brow at the touch, but didn’t comment - “He wants to see you.” 

“No.” Immediately Jaskier answered. “There’s nothing further to say.” 

“Julian-” 

“Don’t call me that. I know you must know my name. Had to have if you managed to find me. I gave up the family a long time ago - there’s no reason for me to return. I haven’t changed my mind and nothing my father can say will alter the decision.” Jaskier said, and pulled away from the witcher. He circled the mare, hooking a foot into a stirrup - he wanted to get away from this as fast as possible. 

Geralt took his cue - he climbed atop Roach in a swift movement, gathering up her reins and turning her away from where she’d been tied. 

“You have a sister.”

For the second time that day, the world dropped out from beneath him and Jaskier felt a bit faint. 

“Oh.” 

And that changed everything. 

+++

“I want to come home.” Jaskier pleaded with his mother, who sat across from him impassively. “Please, mother. I can learn at home, I swear I’ll be better behaved. I swear.” His knuckles were still stinging from earlier that day when the cane came down atop them after making a mistake with his penmanship. 

“You know that all the boys of a title attend this program. You’ll finish your schooling here - whatever you’ve done to earn the cane isn’t my problem, Julian. You know how you’re supposed to conduct yourself. You’ve always been a troublemaker. Maybe Lady Delphia will finally work it out of your system, hm?” His mother tipped her head to the side, gesturing with her hand towards the corner of his tiny room. A desk sat there against the wall, shoved into the corner with barely enough space to do his assignments in the afternoons. “Get your books. I want to see your progress.” 

Jaskier could feel his tears welling up, the lump forming in his throat. “Yes, mother.” He said, walking to the desk and gathering up the books. He brought him to the woman who flipped through them, looking thoroughly unimpressed. Jaskier withered under the silent scrutiny. 

“I’ll need to speak with your teachers. With the amount we’re paying them, you should have had more growth by now. This is ridiculous, Julian. Your penmanship is nearly unreadable. You’ll never succeed like this.” She huffed, snapping the books closed. The way she said his name made him feel like it tasted bad, like she didn’t want it on her tongue. “Your father is going to be so disappointed.” She held the books out to him. 

Jaskier took them with shaking hands. “I’m-- I’m _trying_.” How was he supposed to explain that his brain worked faster than his hand could keep up with? How could he explain that his thoughts were always ages ahead? 

“Try harder.” His mother said, simply, lifting herself from his bed, sweeping past him in her golden dress that fluttered behind her. 

Jaskier stood beside his bed for a long time just holding his books, feeling very small. 

+++

Geralt’s arm felt secure where it was wrapped around his waist. 

Jaskier had his face buried in his shoulder, fingers brushing back and forth over the witcher’s forearm. Occasionally his hand would settle and his thumb would graze over Geralt’s wrist. 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Geralt hadn’t said anything - blessedly - despite how quiet Jaskier had been as they rode away from Brimran. 

“No.” Jaskier said after a few moments, lifting his head from Geralt’s shoulder. His gaze focused on the fire the witcher had built for their little camp, watching the sparks drift towards the dark sky. 

“Then why go?” Geralt asked quietly, and Jaskier let out a weak huff. 

“If I have a sister, I can’t leave her there to fend for herself. She’s already-- I don’t know what they’ve put her through already, but I can’t let her be--” Jaskier struggled for words and Geralt turned his head to press his nose to Jaskier’s temple. Some of the tension in the bard’s shoulders eased and he let out a heavy sigh. 

“You want to take her away.” The rolling voice murmured and Jaskier hummed an agreement. “Kaer Morhen isn’t a place for children.” 

“Wasn’t.” Jaskier corrected. 

“Hm.” Geralt challenged him without words and Jaskier pulled away a little to peer up at the witcher’s face. 

“It _wasn’t_ a place for children. We’re _making_ it one, though. Ciri lives there. She’s a child. It’s not the same place that it once was - that much is clear.” Jaskier pointed out, quietly. 

Silence reigned for a few minutes, the fire crackling and popping as Geralt looked away. His brows furrowed in thought and Jaskier let his eyes wander over his profile, eventually reaching out a hand to gently smooth his thumb over the wrinkle. Geralt turned his head towards the touch immediately and Jaskier leaned in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. 

“If you’re worried about contracts or coin, don’t.” Jaskier said quietly, pulling back a little. “We’ll figure it out.” Geralt’s arm had tensed around him. 

“Witchers don’t stop.” Geralt told him, voice low and nearly lost to the sounds of the evening. 

“I know. I know.” Jaskier brushed his fingers over Geralt’s cheek. “I’m not asking you to.” 

Geralt just… looked at him for a while. Eventually Jaskier tucked the stubborn piece of hair back behind Geralt’s ear. 

“We’ll figure it out, Geralt.” He said again, gently, and then pulled back to lay himself down, resting his head on Geralt’s thigh. “Things will be okay.” And he hoped he sounded as if he meant it, that he wasn’t saying it to make himself believe it as well. 

Geralt’s hand dropped to his hair, fingers brushing through it slowly until Jaskier’s eyes were forced to close under the heaviness of exhaustion.

It had been a long day.

Geralt was awake when Jaskier pulled himself from sleep, but based on the tenseness of his shoulders Jaskier would be willing to bet that the witcher hadn’t slept at all. 

It meant that he’d been brooding all night and Jaskier scrubbed at his eyes as he forced himself up with a soft groan - his back didn’t care for sleeping on the ground very much these days. Never had, but it only got worse with time. 

Geralt looked over at him and despite the tense posture and the furrow between his brows, his eyes read fond. Jaskier swallowed thickly and wandered over to where the witcher sat - he leaned up against his back, winding his arms loosely around his neck and just resting there a moment. 

A gloved hand came up to rest over one of Jaskier’s forearms. 

“What are we walking into?” Geralt finally asked, and Jaskier pressed his face to Geralt’s hair for a moment. 

“Royalty - of a sort.” Jaskier answered, pulling away to sit beside Geralt. He took a handful of the fruit that the witcher offered, picking at it half-heartedly. 

It wasn’t the conversation he’d wanted to have over breakfast. 

“My father was-- effectively he was a vassal.” Jaskier didn’t look at Geralt - “By title he was a Viscount. Technically I was as well.” 

He could _feel_ Geralt’s shock. It made his skin prickle and he took a bite of fruit, chewing more aggressively than he had to. 

“I never wanted it.” Jaskier said, after he’d swallowed. “I still don’t. I would give up my hands to avoid playing that role.” He cleared his throat - “As soon as I’d finished my schooling, I ran away.” 

The witcher didn’t know what to make of it. He knew that. Jaskier took another bite of fruit, stretching his legs out in front of him. He stared down at his boots, at least until Geralt leaned over to press their shoulders together. 

“You weren’t happy?” Geralt’s question was not the one that Jaskier had expected. He turned his head to look over at the witcher finally. Geralt looked-- earnest. He was searching Jaskier’s expression for something, although Jaskier couldn’t say what. 

“No.” An understatement if Jaskier had ever made one. Geralt didn’t need the whole story, though, especially not right now. Not when Geralt was going to have to be in the same room as the people in the stories. 

“And you said-- you’re happy now?” Geralt seemed to struggle with the question - Jaskier knew he didn’t like to ask the same ones and there had to be a reason that the witcher was confirming it. 

“Yes.” Jaskier confirmed, and bumped their shoulders together. “With you.” He added. 

“Hm.” Geralt rumbled a soft noise and then pushed himself to his feet. “Finish your breakfast.” He walked to the horses to begin readying them for the road. 

+++

The younger boy looked up at Jaskier with wide eyes. 

He was only a year younger than Jaskier, but he looked at Jaskier like he was one of the older boys bragging about their adventures on the weekends when they were allowed to go into town. 

Jaskier pretended that his hand and arm weren’t screaming at him, throbbing red from the strikes from the cane - he was certain to have welts this time. 

“No one’s ever corrected Lady Dephia before.” The boy said and Jaskier smiled, albeit a bit wobbly. 

“Until me.” Jaskier said, and tried to sound braver than he felt. 

“Why’d you do it?” The boy asked, pulling his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He rested his cheek against his knees as he stared over at Jaskier from where he sat on the floor of Jaskier’s tiny room. 

“Nothing will change if we don’t say something.” Jaskier pointed out, fingers shaking. He pressed his palm to his thigh in an attempt to will it away - at least until the other boy grew bored and left. 

“But it didn’t change anything - she still hit you.” The boy pointed out, brows furrowed and Jaskier _wishes_ he could remember his name. 

“It wasn’t about changing _her_.” Jaskier tipped his head - “It’s about all the people that listen to her. Now people know she can be wrong.” 

The boy stared at him for a few moments. “She’s going to single you out.” 

Jaskier closed his eyes. 

“I know.” 

+++

Kerack was as awful as Jaskier remembered. 

Half the buildings slouched and crumbled - worse than Novigrad’s terrible leaning squares. Jaskier doubted they could be saved. 

The people watched them ride through the streets from the shadows, eyes suspicious. More than one person spit in their direction and the distant sound of ill coughing made Jaskier’s skin crawl. 

Geralt was more tense than he’d seen in a long time. Jaskier wondered what he might be thinking about. 

“Viscount de Lettenhove!” Someone called and Jaskier straightened up further on his grey mare, refusing to look in the direction of the voice. 

“Come to finish us off? Finish your father’s work? Tear the forest apart?” Jaskier’s eyes scanned the crowd, but he couldn’t find the source. He tugged the reins gently, pulling his mare to a stop. Roach hesitated, but stopped as well a couple of steps ahead. Geralt didn’t look at him, too busy scanning the street around them. 

“No.” Jaskier called, and although he’d raised his voice he had never quite projected it in this way around the witcher. It floated down the decrepit street and Jaskier let his gaze jump from dirty, exhausted face to those thin enough that the wind might knock them down. “If you listened to any wisdom in your life, listen to this one: leave Kerack.” He pulled a hand from his reins to gesture towards the street. “You won’t find any good in this place. A more superstitious man would call this place cursed - it’s not. It’s simply swallowed up in the crushing weight of hatred. Don’t let it consume you, too.” 

And then Jaskier tapped the grey mare’s sides with his heels, urging her into a slow canter. Roach caught up a moment later and Jaskier could feel Geralt’s gaze heavy on his shoulders. 

No words were spoken until they reached the edge of Jaskier’s old home. 

Already he could feel the ghosts scrabbling at him - the sharp, cold fingers of anger and fear and hurt. Jaskier pulled the grey mare to a stop and even she tosses her head - the air itself held dread here. The bard slipped off of the horse, gathering her reins in hand. Beside him he heard Geralt’s boots hit the ground, but he could not tear his eyes off of the looming building. 

It had been _years_ and yet standing there he felt just like a little boy again, small and trapped. 

Geralt’s warm hand closed around the back of his neck gently - it was the only skin the witcher could reach besides his hands. When had he taken his gloves off? The dazed question never got answered as Jaskier shuddered and closed his eyes. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was low between them and Jaskier’s carefully arranged pieces all clicked back into place. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, looking over at the witcher and giving him a small smile - wobbly, one that didn’t reach his eyes, but still more reassuring than the sharp edged one he’d worn in Oxenfurt. 

“It’s alright. Just-- bad memories.” Jaskier told him, and pulled away from Geralt’s hand to lead the grey mare up to the stables. He trusted the witcher to follow, his presence the only warm spot in a land where love and light felt drained dry. 

And so they stabled the horses and Geralt never stood more than two or three steps away. 

It was a good thing, too, because Jaskier felt like the longer they stood in the crumbling estate the more it drained him of all the work he’d done.

Brimran met them in what his father used to call _The Grand Hall_ \- it looked like a joke now. The tapestries were covered in dust and the gilded paint was chipping, the estate itself looked on the verge of death. 

“Your mother is by your father’s bedside.” The man told them, hands tucked behind his back. “She asked me to escort you there as soon as possible--” Brimran’s grey-blue eyes pinned Geralt with a disgusted look. “Alone. Your _companion_ can wait for you in your old rooms.” 

Geralt radiated anger. 

Jaskier wasn’t sure what to say, his gaze leaving Brimran to take in the sight of the hall. 

His mother was old now. Even if she wasn’t, she didn’t - or shouldn’t, really - hold the same power over him as she had when he was small. She couldn’t grab him and drag him from place to place and her words were just angry, bitter powerless words. 

Jaskier finally gave a nod, reaching out to grip Geralt’s upper arm - he gave it a squeeze although the witcher wouldn’t be able to feel much through the armor he wore. 

“Go. I’ll be alright.” Jaskier told him. The words were starting to taste like ash in his mouth. 

Geralt searched his face, hands curled into fists by his sides. He finally nodded and Brimran called for one of the employees of the estate - he, at least, looked a little nervous at the sight of two heavy swords at the witcher’s back. Jaskier turned to follow Brimran, the weight of Geralt’s gaze following him until they ducked into a hallway that led towards the east wing where his parents' rooms waited. 

+++

“I’m not going to be a Viscount.” Jaskier had sat across the dinner table from his parents, unable to bring himself to eat. 

He was nineteen years old and had just finished reading his first book of poetry. It was a copy from the University of Oxenfurt the inside of the cover had read. 

“I’m sorry?” His mother had asked it incredulously, leaning forward in her seat and staring at him like he’d grown a second head or any other number of strange things. 

“I’m not going to be a Viscount.” Jaskier had repeated - louder, firmer. He put down the fork he had been poking at his fish with. “I’m going to go to University.” 

“You’re absolutely not.” His father said, voice smooth and flat. So rarely had he heard him speak with any sort of emotion - Jaskier sometimes wondered where he kept it all. Wondered how he couldn’t speak with any sort of inflection when he could feel his lands rotting around him. 

“I am.” Jaskier said, hands gripping his thighs hard enough to bruise. He needed something to ground him, to provide him the fuel to fight this hollowed out hopeless feeling that had made him so listless - the book of poetry had been the first thing to-- to _wake him up_ for the first time in years. 

“I forbid it.” His mother had said, firmly, and returned to her meal as if that was that. 

“I don’t care.” Jaskier said, and his voice had raised just a bit - he hadn’t meant for it to happen and immediately he could feel that fear coil around his lungs making it hard to breathe. 

“You are an only child.” His father started - and although smooth it was no longer flat. It had raised as well in a way that Jaskier hadn't heard in _years_ \- “You _will_ take my place. You are expressly forbidden from leaving Kerack and you will _never_ speak to your mother in that tone of voice! Do you understand?” 

Cowed, Jaskier had nodded, looking down at his plate. 

His food had tasted of nothing. 

+++

His father looked like a living corpse. 

Jaskier would have thought him dead if he hadn’t seen the man turn his head, forcing grey eyes open. 

Jaskier had always thought them cold, but now-- 

_Empty._

They were empty. 

“Julian.” Came the wrecked, shaky voice. It was so small, Jaskier barely heard it where he stood in the doorway to the room. 

His mother turned and her face shocked him. 

It had been a long time, but she looked _frail_. She was nothing like the terrifying force he remembered and Jaskier sucked in a sharp breath. 

“ _Julian_.” And despite the way age had wizened that voice, it still held the scathing hatred it always had. Jaskier’s spine straightened. 

“Mother. Father.” Jaskier acknowledged and crossed the threshold, walking over to the bed. He refused to sit - he didn’t plan on spending very long in this room. 

Jaskier’s father lifted a hand, fingers only barely managing to snag the sleeve of Jaskier’s light blue doublet. “You came.” If Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d think that there was some sort of relief in that rasp. 

“I was told I had a sister.” Jaskier said. 

His mother made a low, angry noise, but his father only managed a weak nod. 

“You must take my place and care for her.” His father murmured, and Jaskier took a deep breath. After a moment, he shook his head. 

“I’m not going to become a Viscount. I told you that before. And Kerack - father, this place is a ruin. There’s no reason to linger. Your land is worth nothing - she benefits in no way from staying here.” Jaskier pointed out, voice level as he could manage. 

“Julian.” His mother snapped. “This is Zofia’s _inheritance_. She needs you to do this for her.” 

“And what does she inherit?” Jaskier felt his control crumbling and all that _bad_ he tried so hard to get rid of, to sweep up and throw out, came bubbling to the surface. “A ruined land sick with hatred? A crumbling estate? A people lost in _your_ war? No. This is no place for her.” 

“Julian, please--” His father began. 

“No.” Jaskier said, firmly. “No, I came to take Zofia. Kerack is _lost_. In a few years most of the city will have crumbled to dust. Your people have already abandoned you in their hearts. Zofia deserves more.” 

“And _you_ can give it to her? A traveling _bard_?” His mother hissed the words as she, too, stood. She was nearly the same height as him and he met her eyes steadily. 

“Yes.” Jaskier said, simply. 

It was as if he’d slapped her. For a few seconds it was utterly silent and then the wheezing started. His mother looked away first to take in the sight of his father, sitting back down on the edge of the bed. She pressed her hand to his forehead and Jaskier took in the sight of them. 

Despite it all - despite everything - they looked so staggeringly human in that moment that he _pitied_ them. They had created their own terrible beds and yet-- and _yet_ \-- 

“When this is over,” Jaskier said, quietly, his eyes focusing on his mother. She turned to look at him, eyes filled with such _anger_ and _pain_. “You should leave. Brimran will not be able to hold the estate walls forever.” 

“ _Get out_.” His mother’s snarl was wretched. Jaskier nodded, simply because there was nothing more to say. 

He turned on his heel and left the room, following an old familiar path to the west wing of the estate - to his old rooms. 

+++

Jaskier knew Brimran’s rounds nearly to perfection these days. 

It was the only hope he had - he could outrun nearly anyone else, but if Brimran caught him before he could actually _start_ running then it would all be over. 

It had taken him _weeks_ to gather himself up again. He reread his book of poetry, thumbed at the pages until they were dog-eared and worn. The spine was nearly cracked and a few of the latter pages had running ink from nights spent weeping in despair. 

Jaskier spent days reciting poetry to himself to survive his father’s meetings and lessons, plotting every moment he had free time to himself. 

He was nearly sick with fear when he finally made his move, but as the estate shrank into the distance Jaskier could cry in _relief_. 

He didn’t allow himself. 

In fact, he didn’t spill one tear until he stepped into the bustling city of Oxenfurt. 

Music filled the streets and laughter carried on the wind - Jaskier had never heard _joy_ like that before. 

He had stood gaping dumbly on a street corner in ratty clothing, nothing but a mess. 

“Oi! You! C’mere!” The call came from another young man, smiling brightly across the street. It took Jaskier a moment to gather himself. He crossed the street to stand in front of him with furrowed brows - “You look a bit rough.” The voice was gentler now that he was closer. “Brighten up, buttercup. I’ve got a room you can use for the night - you’ll just have to tell me your story. I’ve been looking for some new material and you look like some good inspiration.” The wink might’ve taken away from the generosity if Jaskier knew better, but at the time--

The kindness made Jaskier’s knees weak and before he really knew what was happening, he was openly _sobbing_. The young man looked startled and Jaskier flinched as he raised his arms. 

“ _Oh_ , you poor thing.” The young man had said, mannerisms much more tender, and pulled him into a _hug._

It was warm and soft and all of Jaskier’s pieces shattered. 

It was the moment he realized he would have to remake himself. 

+++

Geralt was a sight for sore eyes. 

He was upset, Jaskier could see it in his posture, but even still it was like seeing Oxenfurt for the first time again. 

“Geralt.” His voice was exhausted, and Geralt was in front of him with three quick steps. Ungloved hands cupped his cheeks and the witcher pressed his nose to the crown of Jaskier’s head as the bard wrapped his arms around Geralt’s waist. 

A low rumble - Jaskier honestly couldn’t tell if Geralt was growling or if he was trying to comfort him. It didn’t matter, really, not when Geralt was warm and solid and a living thing in a land of the living dead. 

Jaskier leaned into him as if he could make them one if he tried hard enough. 

Geralt tensed fully and the squeak of the room door made Jaskier close his eyes. He pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth and breathed out something slow and controlled. (Barely.)

“Julian?” 

The voice was soft and pleasant, small as it presented itself. Jaskier blinked and then pulled back from the witcher to look over his shoulder. 

The girl that stood in the doorway looked a little younger than Ciri. Not by much, maybe a year or two. Her eyes were nearly the same cornflower blue as Jaskier’s and her hair, although brown, was more of a buckwheat honey than the dark chestnut that Jaskier had. Her curls had been pulled back from her face into a loose braid. 

“Zofia?” Jaskier guessed, pulling back from the witcher to turn to face her. She nodded, shuffling from foot to foot. 

“Come here.” Jaskier said, quietly, keeping his exhausted voice as gentle as possible. The girl took a couple of steps and when Jaskier spread his arms, she flinched at first. 

Behind him, Geralt breathed out a soft, “Fuck.” 

After Zofia realized Jaskier wasn’t intending to hit or grab her, she blinked. It took a moment of her just staring at him to understand his intention and the next thing Jaskier knew he had his arms full of a trembling girl. His sister. 

His _sister_.

Jaskier tightened an arm around her, one hand reaching up to cup the back of her head as he curled his body around hers. “Shh.” He soothed, “Shh. I’m going to get you out of here.” 

Then the weeping started. 

Jaskier had to focus consciously on not tensing up, on not thinking about what could have - the important thing was the present. 

It took a long time for her to calm down and when she did, Jaskier had to ask. “Does Brimran know you’re here?” Zofia didn’t pull away, but shook her head. Jaskier ran his hand through a few pieces of hair that had come loose from her braid. “Alright, alright.” 

Geralt’s anger was making his own hard to control, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. 

“Here.” Jaskier started, gently, pulling back from her, letting his hands sweep away her tears before settling on her shoulders. “Let’s be introduced properly, hm?” He smiled something small and kind. “I go by Jaskier now. And this is Geralt of Rivia.” Jaskier turned to look at the witcher, pulling a hand away from Zofia’s shoulder to gesture him closer. 

Geralt grit his teeth, but forced himself to swallow down whatever he was thinking. He approached the two of them and offered up his calloused hand. Zofia blinked up at him owlishly before passing Jaskier to wrap her arms tightly around his waist. 

Geralt tensed up, glancing at Jaskier in a panic. He nodded at the witcher just once, a tiny incline of his head. It took Geralt a moment to put himself into action, but he slid an arm around her and pet his hand over the top of her head. 

“It’s-- alright.” Geralt’s voice was gruff and Jaskier closed his eyes. 

He could sleep for days. 

Jaskier shook himself out and glanced towards the door of the room. 

“We should leave tonight.” Jaskier said, quietly. 

Zofia let out a wounded noise of relief and Geralt tightened his arm around her. It pushed her onto her tiptoes before he loosened it and made an apologetic noise. 

“We won’t make it far.” Geralt said, voice dragged from him reluctantly. 

“We don’t have to. We just need to get away from the city. And the forest. Put distance between ourselves and this rotting place.” The last bit slipped unbidden from Jaskier’s throat. 

Geralt stared him down for a minute and at last gave a slow nod. 

+++

Jaskier stayed with the young man for a few weeks. 

His name turned out to be Eldwin and he was a writer. He helped Jaskier enroll in the university and get a job at the local theatre company - he was only a stagehand, but it was enough coin to keep a bit of food on the table and pay for his textbooks. (It also got his foot in the door for later.) 

Jaskier rebuilt himself. 

He changed his name and voraciously consumed every piece of poetry he could get his hands on, rearranging all his pieces. 

Jaskier tamed the angry wolf inside of him and cleaned out the sadness slowly. It was hard to do at first, bitterness making it hard to soak in the joy around him - anger making it hard to write anything that wasn’t scathing and desperate. 

The longer he made a conscious effort to extend kindness, to enjoy good things, to see the beauty in the life he lived, the easier the choice became. It wasn't always painless and Jaskier made mistakes, but he worked on it the best he could. 

It took a long time to become Jaskier. To become someone that was able to be happy and someone that he was happy to be. 

+++

Zofia would ride on Roach with Geralt. 

It had been decided if only because the grey mare tired out more easily. (Jaskier didn’t tell Geralt his other thought - that Roach was faster and if they needed, they’d get away first.) 

They both readied the horses, Zofia petting Roach’s nose gently. It was a miracle that the horse allowed it - Roach had kicked at Jaskier before for _walking a little too close_. 

Jaskier checked his saddlebags - just in case - and was fully invested in counting the paints to make sure they were all there when he registered a soft rustling sound. 

Geralt had tensed and turned to look at him - 

The moment he saw the movement from the corner of his eye was the moment that Geralt lunged forward. 

His mother didn’t stand a chance and Geralt’s hand around her wrist needed to squeeze only a little before the blade in her hand clattered to the ground. 

Her cheeks were wet, moonlight making her hair more grey than brown. 

“How could you?” She sounded utterly broken, and Geralt looked ready to tear her apart. Jaskier looked at the scene before him and then stepped forward. He squeezed Geralt’s shoulder and the witcher glared at him a moment before dropping her arm. 

It was like cutting the strings of a puppet. 

She crumpled to the stable floor, weeping. “How could you?” She shrieked at him. “Why were you never what you were supposed to be? Why couldn’t you just be what I needed?” Jaskier felt a bit detached from himself. 

“Why couldn’t you just be what _I_ needed?” Jaskier echoed, quietly. 

Roach snorted and Zofia sniffled - she’d started crying again. 

“You never said my name like you loved me. Not once.” Jaskier murmured, watched the frail woman weeping on the floor. The blade reflected moonlight and Jaskier lifted his gaze from her. It drifted to the crumbling building of the estate. 

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier said, slowly. “That you never knew joy. That I couldn’t bring you the joy you wanted. The pride.” Cornflower blue eyes slid over to look at Geralt. The witcher’s expression was unreadable. 

“But it wasn’t my fault.” It sat heavy in the air and then Jaskier turned away from them all, hand latching onto the grey mare’s saddle, hauling himself up into it. 

“And in spite of you, I found _my_ joy.” Jaskier waited until Zofia and Geralt were settled on Roach before he tapped his heels against the grey mare’s sides, urging her immediately into a trot.

He led them out of the stable and into the night air, cutting loose a piece of himself that he hadn’t realized he had _still_ been dragging behind him. 

+++

Jaskier picked up a lute in his third year at university and that, as they say, was history. 

The first time he’d really played for anyone, it had been for a group of his university friends. It was a tiny tavern just off the campus and Jaskier had been _sweating_ from nervousness at first. 

It took minutes for Jaskier to get the whole place roaring. 

His fingers danced over the strings, foot tapping the floor as he tipped to the slightly to the side, bent at the waist. The lute had never felt more light than that night. 

Someone at the back of the crowd hollered and the rest shouted in delight, lifting their tankards - ale sloshed over the sides and drenched their sleeves (the floor, too). The whole place smelled of alcohol and sweat. 

Jaskier was in love with the joy that made the air itself sing.

+++

By the time they camped, Zofia was pretty much only kept on the horse by the witcher’s arms. 

Jaskier helped him get her down, wrapping up in Geralt’s traveling cloak before getting her settled on the ground. 

Jaskier felt just as exhausted, but sleep wasn’t going to come to him easily. He stood beside the grey mare and scrubbed at his face until his eyes burned. 

Geralt approached him slowly, as if he might spook away and truthfully it made Jaskier's stomach turn. He never wanted the witcher to be worried about reaching for him. Jaskier left this hands over his eyes, parting his fingers a little to peer at the witcher as he lifted his arms. Gloved hands reeled him into a strong chest and Jaskier leaned into it sluggishly. 

“It’s alright.” Geralt said, voice low so as not to wake Zofia. 

“I try to be conscious, but they make it so painfully hard.” Jaskier said and was shocked to find his voice wobbling. It broke a bit on the last word and he squeezed his eyes shut against the burning behind them. 

“And you try your best.” Geralt rumbled. “That is all you can do.” 

Jaskier sagged against him and Geralt lowered them both to the ground, pulling Jaskier into his lap. “It will be okay.” And damn everything, Jaskier _believed_ him. 

Jaskier didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but at some point he must have fallen asleep. The next thing he knew he was blinking his exhausted eyes open in sunlight, fuzzy mind trying to process the time he'd lost. He squinted up at the sky, trying to take stock of all his limbs. 

He’d been sprawled out on the ground, head pillowed on Geralt's spare tunic, and he lifted a clumsy hand to scrub at his eyes. Sounds slowly filtered in and he became gradually aware of quiet voices. 

“So you hunt monsters?”

“Yes.”

“Is it scary?”

A long pause. 

“Sometimes.” 

“Why?” 

“Hm?”

“Why hunt them, then? If it’s scary?” 

“Someone has to.” 

“So you don’t like it?” 

“Never known anything else.” 

Jaskier decided that was probably a good time to intervene. He pushed himself up with a groan. Zofia made a soft, pleased noise at the sight of him. 

“Jaskier.” She smiled - even if it was small and subdued, it was something. Jaskier smiled a sleepy, crooked thing and Geralt hummed a soft note. 

If they’d been in private, the witcher probably would have kissed him. Jaskier’s crooked smile spread into a proper grin and he stretched slowly. He hoisted himself to his feet and made his way over to the other two, plopping himself down beside the witcher. 

“Getting acquainted without me?” Jaskier asked, lifting a brow. 

“Needed rest.” Geralt grunted softly, leaning their shoulders together. It was a comforting reminder and Zofia watched them curiously. 

Jaskier remembered how scarce kind touch had been in Kerack, how little he had experienced, and his heart ached for her. 

“We’ve got a long way to ride.” Jaskier tipped his head back with a sigh. 

“Kaer Morhen?” Zofia asked, quietly. Jaskier lifted his head, looking over at Geralt - a little intrigued. 

“You’ve been quite talkative, hm?” Jaskier teased a little and Geralt grunted, rolling his eyes away towards the sky. Jaskier grinned brightly, tipping his head to rest it against the witcher’s shoulder. “Come now. It’s a good thing.” He crooned.

“Hm.” 

Jaskier laughed and lifted his head to look back at Zofia. “Did he tell you about Ciri?” His sister - that was something he was really going to have to get used to - nodded a little. “I think she’ll be really glad to see you. She’s been stuck with a bunch of big brutes - can you imagine? Being stuck with four witchers and _me_.” 

Zofia huffed a tiny noise, a hand reaching up to cover her grin. Jaskier counted it as a win. 

Zofia rode with Jaskier this time to give Roach a break. (That and Jaskier wasn’t so worried about running. They were, for the moment, in the clear.) It meant that Jaskier couldn’t strum the lute, but he _did_ sing some of the more jaunty traveling songs he could think of to make the time pass more quickly for the girl. 

He remembered the first time he’d traveled with Geralt through Velen up to Novigrad and he’d thought the road would never end. 

Zofia, for the most part, seemed to be taking things in stride. 

At least, until the night they camped outside of Oxenfurt. 

She woke Jaskier with her crying. 

His whole chest felt like someone had stepped on it with their full weight and he sat up blearily. It was the sight that met him that caused his lungs stop working altogether. 

Geralt cradled Zofia in his arms, one arm wrapped tightly around her. His other hand pet over her head - it was a little awkward but oh-so-careful. From where he'd woken Jaskier couldn’t hear, but by the time he’d made his way over he realized that Geralt was _humming_. It was off-tune and stilted, but slowly the bard came to realization that it was the same tune that he'd soothed Ciri with after her nightmare. 

Jaskier settled himself down on the ground beside the two of them, wrapping an arm around Geralt and sliding the other one around Zofia. 

This here, this was a gift. This ache was a gift. 

It was rooted in _love_ and Jaskier nuzzled against the witcher, pushing his own tears back. They had all come so far and had so much farther to go, but they could make it with each other. 

Joy sat waiting for them, golden, just beyond the horizon. 

+++

Kaer Morhen had never been a more welcome sight. 

Ever. 

Maybe it was because Jaskier had labeled it home now and after the last couple of weeks he wanted to be nowhere more. 

Ciri came running out through the gate before they even reached it, although she stopped in her tracks at the sight of Zofia. 

“Jaskier?” She called in question and Zofia leaned back against Jaskier’s chest. 

Jaskier leaned just a bit to get a glimpse of her face and almost laughed. Oh, dear. 

“Are you okay?” And they must look a bit bedraggled after the whole affair. Jaskier took a deep breath of the cool mountain air, thinking about the paint in his saddlebags. 

“We are.” Jaskier finally spoke, because even if they weren’t in that exact moment they would be. Because things would be okay.

Vesemir emerged from the gate as well, crossing his arms. Jaskier knew what he was probably thinking, but didn’t bother to acknowledge the older witcher until he’d helped Zofia dismount. Jaskier slid off the grey mare after her, approaching the older witcher and holding out the reins. 

“Not a scratch.” He promised, and Vesemir leaned to the side to peer around him at the new arrival. 

Jaskier stepped aside and held out his hand, waiting for Zofia to take it before he spoke. “This is my little sister Zofia. She’ll be staying with us.” There was no room for argument and save for the slight flash of surprise, Vesemir didn’t bother to offer one. He gave a slight nod and Geralt’s boots hit the ground to the right of them. 

“Anybody make a decent dinner?” Jaskier asked, already reaching with his free hand to take one of Ciri’s. 

Jaskier led the way inside as Ciri offered up - “Eskel cooked rabbit stew. It was alright, but he doesn’t get the spices right like you.” 

Jaskier laughed at that, and although it was supposed to be a happy sound it carried only relief and exhaustion. “Hm. That’s because witchers forget that taste is an important component. They’ll pick it up eventually.” He glanced over at Geralt and found the witcher already staring at him. 

Something strange swirled in those golden eyes. If Jaskier didn’t know better, he might call the expression awestruck - but Geralt of Rivia had probably never been in awe of anything in his very long life. He couldn’t imagine witchers finding anything to inspire that specific brand of wonder after all that they experience. Jaskier still offers him a smaller, more private smile - the moment only broken when Ciri decided he was moving too slow and dragged him by his hand towards the kitchens. 

+++

Jaskier intended to help Zofia get settled into her own room, but Ciri had insisted that Zofia stay in hers. 

Eskel had helped him haul a second bed into the room and despite Geralt insisting that he'd do it, Jaskier huffed and puffed through the process. (There were some things important for Jaskier to help do and this was one of them. She was _his_ sister, after all.) To be truthful, Jaskier was glad for the arrangement. Ciri knew what nightmares were like - she had a much better handle on her own these days, and it would be good for her to be there should Zofia wake from one. 

Geralt had lingered with him for a bit, but Jaskier knew he was taking his time when the witcher pressed a kiss to his temple and returned to their rooms. Jaskier simply couldn't tear himself away, not yet. He'd never pictured himself being a father (for many reasons) and to suddenly be a guardian to _two_ extraordinary young girls was--

Everything was overwhelming. 

Yet his heart was the most full he could ever remember it being. His gentle songs that carried them to sleep held a warmth he hadn't thought could _come_ from his core. Long after they'd submitted to exhaustion he had stayed, plucking at the strings of his lute in quiet melodies that nearly got lost to the sounds from the forest drifting in through the windows. 

These were the moments that every decision felt like it was worth it. 

Jaskier eventually forced himself from the rickety chair, wandering back to his and Geralt’s room. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but he’d supposed maybe Geralt would be in bed. At his most adventurous, Jaskier thought he might be taking a bath. 

He certainly hadn't believed he'd be crowded up against the wall as soon as he’d stepped into their rooms. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice wasn’t the low rumble he’d come to know meant he wasn’t leaving bed for a few hours. It was-- 

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s own voice was surprised, quiet - maybe a little confused. He wasn’t upset by the turn of events, too busy letting his hands slide up over Geralt’s chest. His palms ended up cupping either side of the witcher’s neck, thumbs brushing at his jaw lightly. 

“How.” It wasn’t _really_ a question that asked for an answer. It just sounded like something that Geralt had wanted to _say_. 

Jaskier frowned slightly, moving a hand to ghost fingertips over the corner of his mouth. “How?” He echoed, absently. 

“You. The way you are. How?” Geralt’s lips moved against his fingers, eyes focused intensely on Jaskier’s face, and after only a few seconds the witcher pressed past his hand to bury his nose into Jaskier’s hair. It caged the bard against the wall, the witcher nearly plastered against him, radiating warmth. 

“I-- I didn’t want to become them, I guess.” Jaskier managed, a bit distracted. He couldn’t be blamed, not really. It’d been a long few weeks and Geralt was warm and he was _home_. “Wanted to be better.”

“Better?” Geralt echoed, and then made his noisy little huffs of laughter. “Jaskier, you’re--” He seemed to lose his grasp on words and instead leaned in to kiss him. Jaskier didn’t know how long it lasted, but by the time Geralt pulled back he’d become pliant and relaxed. 

“Come to bed.” Geralt murmured and Jaskier did. 

+++

Jaskier woke to fingers running up and down his spine. 

He groaned, turning his face away from the light, moving a clumsy hand to shield his eyes first - only seconds later he thought better and reached for Geralt instead. 

“You make me happy.” 

It took a few minutes for the rumbled statement to really sink in. Jaskier found himself grinning like an idiot into their sheets. When he’d managed to school his expression into something more subdued, he rolled over to look at Geralt. The witcher was watching him, looking the most soft and open that Jaskier had ever seen him. 

“Good.” Jaskier whispered, reaching for Geralt’s hand. He pulled it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to his strong palm. “I’d hoped so.” 

Geralt moved his hand to cup Jaskier’s cheek, gaze roaming over his face as if he couldn't decide what he wanted to look at most. 

“I can wear pants?” Zofia’s incredulous question was asked so loud that it could be faintly heard even in their room and Jaskier’s breath caught before a laugh tumbled out of his chest. It shook him and he turned his face into Geralt’s palm, hiding his smile there. 

The laughter that made his breath stutter out of him didn't last long. His eyes prickled and he wasn't able to tame his breathing before it turned into quiet crying that made his insides wither. Despite Jaskier's embarrassment, Geralt gathered him up to his chest, petting a hand through his hair. Fingers massaged the nape of his neck and Jaskier wept against his will, simply overwhelmed. 

Life looked so incredibly beautiful. It was jarring to think that he ever believed he wouldn’t make it out of Kerack.

Oh, there would be troubles in their future, he was sure. But right now, in that moment, they were all home. They were safe. They were allowed to be _happy_.

Jaskier’s arms slipped around Geralt’s waist to cling to him, eventually calming to near silent sniffles as he caught his breath. 

“Sorry.” Jaskier whispered. “I’ve-- been a mess.” He apologized mostly because he knew tears made Geralt uncomfortable. 

To his surprise, Geralt merely pressed a kiss to his temple. “Love you.” He said in that gruff voice of his. It made Jaskier stop breathing and then a hitched noise escaped his throat. 

He pushed a hand against Geralt's chest, though there wasn't any real force behind it. “Are you _trying_ to make me cry again?” 

Geralt huffed a few of his amused noises against Jaskier’s hair. “Hm.” He pulled back to sweep Jaskier’s tears away, leaning their foreheads together afterwards. 

“Of course I love you.” Jaskier muttered, bumping his nose against Geralt’s gently. 

“Hm.” And Geralt kissed him.

+++

It was noon by the time they’d managed to drag themselves from the bed. 

Geralt was dressed only in that worn black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and those ridiculously high waisted pants. They made Geralt look _good_ , of course, but on anyone else Jaskier thinks they might've looked terribly silly. 

Jaskier had opted for a simple cream tunic and a pair of light blue breeches. 

Maybe it was shocking for him to be so dressed down, but he thought he deserved it - just for today.

They’d wandered hand and hand through the halls of Kaer Morhen, following the sound of voices. 

When they emerged into the huge, high ceilinged room, they found Ciri and Zofia talking to Eskel. Zofia was wearing pants - by the length they were Ciri’s since they bunched up around her shoes. She was also drowning in a tunic, laces tied tight, sleeves bunched up around her forearms. She needed proper clothing, but Jaskier found himself letting it go - it could be worried over later. 

Eskel was gesturing with his hands - swinging a sword it looked like. Maybe they were talking about training Zofia. If they weren’t, they might need to because her eyes were wide and glittering - utterly captivated. 

“You’re up!” Ciri said brightly, and Zofia whirled to look at them. Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s hand and the witcher hummed a low noise, bumping their shoulders together as he stood beside him. 

“Thank you!” Zofia blurted it loudly. It echoed around them and Jaskier blinked before going soft. 

“You don’t need to thank me, but you’re welcome.” Jaskier answered, and she darted over to them to give Jaskier a tight hug. He used his free hand to rub her back gently. “Don’t get too overzealous just yet. You haven’t met Lambert, most likely.” Jaskier joked - “He’s always grumpy.” 

Zofia shook her head and laughed - or maybe cried a bit - against him. Jaskier let her stay as long as she needed - couldn't imagine denying her that. She finally pulled away and gave him a wobbly smile before making her way back to where Ciri and Eskel had returned to talking, albeit a bit more subdued. Geralt squeezed his hand and Jaskier looked over at him, heart stopping for a moment at the genuine love in Geralt’s expression. 

Jaskier blinked - “Shit.” He said and Geralt frowned briefly, before snorting. 

“You forgot, didn’t you? Hope Vesemir wasn’t too careless.” Geralt rumbled. 

“I’ll be right back.” Jaskier hurried away, leaving Geralt with Eskel and the girls. He ducked out of the building, making a beeline for the stables. He retrieved his saddlebags, relief overtaking him when none of the containers appeared to be broken. He gathered the bag up and carried it back inside, cradled carefully to his chest with hopes that it would be well-received. 

Returning indoors greeted him with a sight that Jaskier could have watched for hours. Geralt seated himself to the right of Eskel and Ciri had taken up the space beside him, leaning against Geralt’s side. The witcher had curled an arm loosely around her and Zofia had stayed standing, refocused on Eskel’s story and looking as though she was hanging on to every word. Occasionally Geralt would laugh and interject, shoulders loose and expression unreserved with bright eyes.

Jaskier hated to do it, but he broke the moment with his approach. 

“Whoa, what’s all that?” Eskel, completely sidetracked, peered at Jaskier as he sat down and began pulling the containers out. 

“Good ink - not for writing - and paint. For Ciri - and Zofia if she’s interested.” Jaskier offered the items up to Ciri who had straightened up from leaning against Geralt. 

“For me?” She echoed, looking down at the royal blue paint blankly. Jaskier couldn’t tell if that was a bad sign or not. 

“Yes.” Jaskier said it a bit cautiously. “I saw you drawing in your notes. I thought you might-- want to try your hand at it properly.” It was phrased _almost_ like a question. 

Ciri was still for only a moment and then Jaskier quite suddenly found himself with an armful of her. He laughed breathlessly - “Oh! Good.” He murmured, and squeezed her tight before letting go. 

“Can I--?” Ciri gestured, the items piled into her arms. She obviously couldn’t wait to try them, bouncing from foot to foot. 

“I can, too?” Zofia asked, hopefully, Ciri already nodding. 

“Go on.” Geralt answered, gruffly, first, watching the two girls race off towards Ciri’s rooms where she kept her parchment. 

“You will spoil them.” Eskel said, taking Jaskier’s attention away. He turned to look at the witcher. He didn’t seem upset, just stating a fact - a quiet musing as his own gaze stayed focused on the doorway that the girls disappeared through. 

“Maybe.” Jaskier admitted. “You exist only once - why hold back?” Geralt was looking at him - he could feel his gaze. He didn’t meet the golden eyes just yet, focused instead on Eskel. “Life is too short to waste time thinking that there is a way to overindulge. Eat the best sweets, reach for love, drink, and be merry when you can. It is important to live, not simply exist.” 

Eskel turned his gaze on the bard, considering him quietly. “You two are a good match.” 

“You’re annoyingly kind, just like him.” Lambert said from behind him, and it nearly made Jaskier jump out of his skin. He stood, huffing a couple of breaths and pressing a hand over his chest. 

“Fuck _off_.” Jaskier managed, lifting his hand to push through his hair. “Gods, Lambert. And you--” He turned on Geralt, who quickly tried to hide his smirk. He blinked innocently up at Jaskier. 

“Wow. I can’t believe this is what betrayal feels like. Shall I write a ballad about my broken heart?” Jaskier rolled his eyes and shook himself out. “Witchers.” He muttered under his breath. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt murmured and it was nearly a coo, grabbing his wrist and tugging Jaskier up against him. The bard stumbled, landing in the witcher’s lap. It was mortifying only for a moment, until Geralt’s arms wrapped around his waist and a chin settled over his shoulder. 

“Disgusting.” Lambert groused at the exact moment that Eskel made a gagging noise. Jaskier was a bit over the moon and didn’t really care. 

+++

It took Jaskier a while to readjust - maybe that’s the wrong word. Plain _adjust_ would probably be a better one - it’d never been like this before. He’d never felt like he really, without a doubt, belonged somewhere the way he did now. 

Jaskier had been worried about Zofia at first - if only because he didn’t want her to feel like she _had_ to train like Ciri. To everyone’s surprise - including his own that he wouldn’t admit to - she _asked_ to be taught what Ciri was learning. He couldn’t tell if Zofia wanted to be like Ciri, if she wanted to impress her, or if she genuinely was as excited about swords as it appeared. (It was mildly concerning to Jaskier, but she deserved to pursue what she wanted and if she wanted to wield a sword then he would defend her right to do so.) 

Either way, Vesemir took to her immediately. 

Where Ciri was determined to learn the physical side of things, Zofia was eager to soak up any and all information she could. She spent _hours_ reading while Ciri would race through so she could be outside with one of the witchers. It was amusing to see their differences - and their bickering - despite how close they were. They asked to keep their beds in the same room and Jaskier couldn’t really imagine a reason to split them up. He allowed it, often spending time each night to sing a bit to them. 

And-- Geralt touched him freely which made Jaskier melt every time. 

Speaking of, Jaskier was working on dinner when Geralt managed to sneak into the kitchen. Warm hands landed on his hips, a kiss dropped to his shoulder as the witcher peered over his shoulder at the venison he was cutting up. 

“Can I ask something?” Geralt rumbled, and Jaskier hummed a soft noise of acknowledgement, trying to make sure he didn’t slice a finger off. He set the knife aside, hands resting on the cutting board as he waited for Geralt to continue. 

The witcher’s arms wrapped around him, turning his head to press a kiss to Jaskier’s temple. “Why Jaskier?” 

Ah. 

_That_ had been the question he’d expected Geralt to ask long ago - before they even went to Kerack. He wanted to rest his hands on Geralt’s, but his own were rather gross at the moment. He tapped fingers against the counter instead. 

“It’s silly.” Jaskier warned and Geralt tightened his arms around him, grumbling a low sound that told Jaskier he ought not to say that again. Jaskier sighed. “The first person who was kind to me, who gave me a chance to be better - he gave me a nickname. I didn't want to say my name so-- well, he settled on buttercup for me.” The bard pursed his lips. “Jaskier roughly translates to that - or dandelion. I didn’t just want to name myself after a flower, I guess, but it was the first time I’d been called something with any amount of affection. I clung to it because I’d hoped I’d hear it like that from others, too. I'd hoped that the world could be kinder than Kerack.” 

Geralt was quiet. Jaskier grimaced and opened his mouth, but the witcher spoke. “Not silly.” He murmured, firmly. “Love you.” He added, voice low, private and for the bard only. Jaskier let out a slow breath. 

“Love you.” Jaskier responded, turning his head enough that Geralt could lean to press a kiss to his lips. 

“Now. Either help me with dinner or get out of the kitchen, Vesemir will be very grumpy if dinner’s late _again_ and I'm tired of him giving us those _looks_.” Jaskier smiled against the witcher’s lips and Geralt puffed those little amused noises of his before pulling away to pick up a knife, beginning to chop up the vegetables that Jaskier had laid out. 

There were still things they needed to talk about, but that was okay. They could wait a little while longer - joy had welcomed them home and Jaskier fully intended to bask in it. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked Zofia! I fully intend on writing more of her and Ciri's friendship. Ciri needed someone besides all these adults tbh, no matter how much they love her. Also hope this wasn't too angsty. Jaskier has lived through a lot of trauma and I think some of his behaviors and his ability to choose to be soft stems from those experiences so hopefully I translated it alright. I hope you like where this verse is going! I have a few more fics in mind for it. I probably won't get to get another one posted until Tuesday-ish, though. I might post something short, but it won't be a part of this verse!  
> (Tumblr is xdandelionxbloomx if you wanna come scream at me.)


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